Page 191 of Reverie
“Watching this motherfucker burn,” is my final response.
TWENTY-EIGHT
WINTER
Before I open my eyes, my first thought is: I don’t trust Marcus Law.
When I woke up on a boat and saw him sitting casually in a chair while I was hogtied on the ground, I contemplated how I could murder him with any appendage I could manage to free. But then when two goons that I later learned came from Morris Winthrope’s crew came to grab me, Marcus pulled me up and whispered in my ear to do everything exactly as he said. And I, for some reason, trusted him.
In the caves, he told me to scream so that Hunter could find us, and I did so without question. Now, in the cold daylight, I realize I probably shouldn’t have trusted him so freely.
Granted, he did end up pretty much saving all our asses at the end of the day, but he also participated in drugging my water, dragging me out of my home, and just generally scaring the shit out of me.
Now that the kind-yet-terrified Martinican doctor has finished assessing me, I’ve heard the baby’s strong heartbeat with the Doppler that I kept pressed to my stomach for several hours, we’ve consulted with the doctor back at Misha’scompoundandI’ve finally been given clearance for a three-hour call with Genevieve, I’m able to think beyond my terror.
The main thought I have—behind my curiosity about what kind of illegal acts my husband facilitated to see to my care back on Winter Island—is that Marcus Law is not to be trusted.
“Knock, knock!” Ella’s voice is bright as she peeks around the door to the primary bedroom where I’ve been sleeping on and off for the last several hours. The disruption in my sleep pattern wasn’t because of what I’d just gone through, but rather because Hunter had the two nurses who accompanied the doctor check on me every thirty fucking minutes.
“Come in,” I say, trying to hide my weariness as she pushes into the room before I grant permission.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, bouncing over to sit on the bed next to my hip. The sun is out, and a quick glance at the clock on the bedside tells me it’s late in the afternoon.
“I’d feel a lot better if I could be left alone,” I grumble.
Ella lets out a small laugh that turns into a grimace.
“H wants to leave tonight,” she replies. I nod at the news. We have a full house—well, the house isn’tfullsince it’s massive, but there are a lot of people here. Misha, Luna, Leo, Ella, and Jared are here, along with a few dozen soldiers from The Resistance.
I’m conflicted because a big part of me really wants to go back home. But home is Misha’s place right now, and what Ireallywant is to gohomehome—back to Amelia Manor.
I scoot up higher on the pillows, situating myself to face her and placing my hands over my bump. The baby kicks my palm, and my heart trips over itself.
We’re here. We’re safe. The other stuff doesn’t really matter.
“How is everyone?” I ask, changing the subject. Hunter has been annoyingly silent about the aftermath of everything except to say that Isla Cara burned to the ground and Morris Winthrope is dead.
Ella smiles, but it’s sad. “The people we rescued have a long road ahead, but Max is working with us and other organizations to get everyone back to their homes.”
My throat burns. If there’s one thing that makes any of the last twenty-four hours acceptable, it’s the fact that Misha and Hunter’s intervention saved more than a hundred people—not just the people The Legion trafficked, but the others who were imprisoned on Isla Cara too. But if there’s a long road ahead of the survivors, there’s a long road ahead of us too.
Even though Morris Winthrope is gone, we still don’t know who the leader of The Legion is.
“So I didn’t just come here to check on you,” Ella says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
She bites her lip and traces a pattern on the bedspread. “There’s someone who is here to see you.”
My stomach does a somersault as I think of who it could possibly be—who I hope it could possibly be.
“Oh?” I say again, but this time with actual tears spilling forward.
“Sunbeam.”
I blink away the moisture and find Hunter standing in the entryway, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.